


Wingmen

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, spoilers for 2.01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Aramis and Porthos find out about Constance and d’Artagnan, and tolerate it to varying degrees. a.k.a: How The Three Musketeers Became Constagnan Shippers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wingmen

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: SPOILERS from 1.07 all the way through to 2.01.

The Musketeers is a young regiment still, Athos thinks. There’s still time—and he has sufficient sway with the captain—to write down certain laws and implement them with utmost haste. It will make him unpopular among the men for a while, yes, but hostility has its advantages: familiarity, for one, and peace, for another.

d’Artagnan comes out of the stables, wiping his hands on a rag, loudly humming some Gascon ditty.

Athos grits his teeth. _Rule number one_ , he thinks. _No singing in the garrison between sunrise and sunset. Penalty: daily guard duty for the church choir._

He levers himself painfully off his seat at the mess table, mindful of his throbbing temples and the sick churn at the pit of his stomach. It is bad enough that he had witnessed such an injustice befall Comtesse de Larroque—Ninon—but to have his wife perpetrate it as the instrument of the Cardinal had him crawl into a wine bottle with far more vigour the previous night than he had done in years. He had forgotten just how terrible the morning after tends to be after such excess. He can no more tolerate the bright sunlight, the clash of swords and the shouting than spun glass a battering ram, and he wishes nothing more than to retreat to his room and search for more—

“ _Athos!_ ”

He grimaces and turns, only to find the tip of a rapier mere inches from his nose. At the other end is d’Artagnan’s grinning face, the sunlight bouncing off every exposed tooth in bizarre and torturous ways.

“No,” he says.

Unsurprisingly, d’Artagnan doesn’t relent. “Are you afraid you’ll lose?” he asks, laughingly.

Athos raises an eyebrow. _Rule number two—all new recruits swear a vow of silence for two years. Penalty: gagging their mouth with one of Porthos’ unwashed bandannas_.

He is entertained by the mental image for all of three seconds before d’Artagnan moves his rapier, the blade ruffling Athos’ hair. “Well, I suppose that answers the question,” he says, in that thrice-damned singing voice, and Athos finally decides he’s had enough.

Three minutes later, d’Artagnan’s picking himself off the ground, scrabbling with one hand for his fallen rapier. “What did I tell you?” he says brightly. “A contest!”

“You didn’t land a single hit,” Athos informs him dryly. Lord above, he needs a drink.

“Let’s do it again,” d’Artagnan persists. “It’s a beautiful day, and I’m feeling confident. I can defeat you—this time.”

Somewhere at the back of his addled mind is a slow flicker of suspicion. This behaviour seems terribly familiar—“I know you are a glutton for punishment, d’Artagnan,” he says, “but you are not always quite this delusional.”

“There are many things that give a man strength, Athos,” d’Artagnan says, and Athos understands. He _understands._ No wonder the behaviour seems familiar—he’s seen every possible iteration of it in the last five years.

Oh, god.

“I have no patience for lovestruck fools,” Athos says, probably harsher than he’d intended, sheathes his sword, and begins to walk away.

 _Rule number three: every soldier believing himself to be in love can spar with Aramis. Penalty: mucking out the stables, alone, every morning until further orders_.

d’Artagnan can croon to the horses.

* * *

 

Aramis has seen every possible effect that drink has on a man—from maudlin to raucous, sullen to merry. He has studied these effects to almost a science on his friends—Athos drinks to forget, but only stews in more misery; Porthos is louder, more reckless, and surprisingly affectionate; d’Artagnan’s either unconscious or giggling at the slightest shift of the wind.

Now, however—

The lad’s staring into his cup of wine with a scowl so reminiscent of Athos’ that Aramis levels a suspicious stare at the older Musketeer, sitting in a manner that’s a perfect mirror image of d’Artagnan’s the other side of the room. Athos looks up as though he sensed his gaze (Aramis would not be surprised), and gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look.

“Young d’Artagnan’s just won his commission,” Aramis tells Porthos, hoping for a more receptive ear, “and I have seen men more inclined to celebrate at funerals.”

“A woman,” Porthos says, smiling lopsidedly, winding one arm around Aramis’ waist and pulling him closer. He raises his other hand, one finger extended, contemplating his next statement at great length. “A _woman_ ,” he concludes with a self-congratulatory grin.

 _But of course_. d’Artagnan’s had eyes for only woman since they’d known him, and Aramis has to be blind not to see that she returns his affections. There appears to have been trouble in paradise, and both the romantic and the medic in him are interested in exploring the matter further.

He gently extricates himself from Porthos’ arms and settles down opposite the young Gascon. “d’Art—”

“She doesn’t,” d’Artagnan says, and to Aramis’ horror, a tear rolls down his nose and drops into his drink. “She doesn’t, and that’s that.”

Aramis is feeling the sinking sense of having direly miscalculated his own abilities, but he ploughs on, “Love you, you mean?”

d’Artagnan gives him an anguished look.

“Uh, well, right. That was a stupid question.” Aramis clears his throat. “I don’t suppose she actually told you anything, am I correct? Constance is too good a woman to lie to you, and perhaps—”

“She told me.” Another tear, and Aramis has a fleeting thought about how salted wine would taste. He shifts uncomfortably. “Well, d’Artagnan,” he says at last, “I speak from experience when I say that women are women, and that nothing more can be done.”

“Constance is not just any _woman_ ,” d’Artagnan says tightly. “She’s… she’s _Constance_.”

There’s a reverence in his voice that touches Aramis; he’s not so old and so bitter that he doesn’t remember the heady blush of first love. He does, however, know how those relationships rot and wither, and he thinks too fondly of both d’Artagnan and Constance to see that happen to them. “No, d’Artagnan,” he says. “She is a woman, and there is only so much you can ask of her, and so much you can give to her. Once you start thinking otherwise—therein lies hurt and heartbreak. Trust me, I know.”

“You know _nothing_ ,” d’Artagnan says through gritted teeth, glaring at him. Aramis can’t help but feel hurt; when Porthos comes up behind d’Artagnan and engulfs him in an embrace, he quietly slips out.

The next morning, he sees Constance in the marketplace when on patrol. Her eyes linger far too long on the empty space beside him before meeting his gaze with a smile. He smiles back, touches his hat, thinks of her brandishing the sword in front of him like a warrior angel, and wonders, fleetingly, if d’Artagnan is right to revere her so.

* * *

 

d’Artagnan looks downright miserable when he comes back to the garrison after leaving Constance.

Truth be told, Porthos is a little disappointed; if nothing else, he was hoping to drink to their happiness. There’ve been far too many sacrifices with very few visible gains to show for it—for instance, the whole garrison seems to have accepted their ruse and moved on (notwithstanding some grumbles), but it is never a trifle to play with fellow soldiers’ trust so; there are few things Porthos treasures like he does his friends’ confidence in him and he in theirs. And now it seems as though in a world of backroom politics and traitors and backstabbers, even love didn’t prevail.

“Bonacieux tried to kill himself,” d’Artagnan tells them, spitting _Bonacieux_ like the name is a particularly nasty piece of badger intestine. “Constance, she—uh. She has no choice.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos says, before he can really help himself, “It’s obviously an act.”

“A strategic bit of playacting can be used to get what you want,” Aramis says, tilting his head, “as we have ably demonstrated.”

“Wait and watch,” Athos says.

Porthos raises an eyebrow. “Really? Nothin’ about how he shouldn’t get involved in this at all?”

Athos takes a deep breath, puts on his hat. “Each of us owe Madame Bonacieux a great debt,” he says. “And if we have reason to believe that her husband is causing her distress, or that she wishes to be with someone else—” here d’Artagnan looks up sharply, “—we shall intervene. Until then, we wait and watch.” He turns towards the stables. “For now, I believe we are needed at the palace immediately, gentlemen.”

d’Artagnan watches Athos’ retreating back, naked hero worship in his eyes. Aramis sighs next to Porthos, nudges his elbow. “This will not end well,” he says.

Porthos snorts. “I thought you were the romantic.”

“Tragedy is as much the lifeblood of a romantic as love,” Aramis tells him. “And there is nothing more tragic than the harsh realities of our world.”

“I say we fight it for as long as we can. For the lad. For us all,” Porthos says, and feels gratified when he is rewarded with a blinding smile.

* * *

d’Artagnan sits at the mess table after Constance leaves, staring at his hands.

A few minutes pass before he feels Athos’ hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know how long Athos has been there—whether he’d listened to everything they’d said—but he does not dare ask.

“You will not let me assume why I just saw Madame Bonacieux leave in tears?”

 _She inquired after General de Foix’s health_ , d’Artagnan wants to say. _That’s all. Perhaps she grieves for him; perhaps she will cry only for strangers, like the one she chose to live with_.

What he says instead is: “She is a woman, and there’s only so much I can ask of her.” The words are bitter on his tongue. “And only so much I can give.”

“Perhaps,” Athos says, after a long, silent moment, “you are asking the wrong things of the wrong person. Perhaps—you should demand from yourself what you have demanded of Constance.” He squeezes his shoulder. “And, d’Artagnan? You _will_ apologise.” The hand disappears.

d’Artagnan turns, hurt and protests burning hot on his tongue, but Athos is already gone.

**_Finis_ **


End file.
